Gotham High
by Jake Walker
Summary: This is a parody of the Batman story, but one in which they're all in high school. I don't own any of these characters, but I'm using them anyway. Yes, I am aware that DC tried to do this, but, since they never did, I'm going to. This is my first story, so I am open to critisism.
1. Prologue

Prologue

A terrible scream pierced the usual nightly silence like a hot knife through butter. Down the halls of Wayne Manor it flew, disturbing every mouse and fly it swept past. It was even enough to rouse young Thomas Wayne, and his wife, Martha, from their deep slumber.

He glanced over to her, expectantly. She smiled, grimly, as if she'd been expecting the scream, and simply said, "your turn."

Thomas groaned tiredly, clearly not wanting to get up, before quite literally rolling out of their king sized bed. He hit the ground with a dull thud.

"You okay?" Martha yawned.

"Ow," he replied, simply.

He considered just continuing to lay there, in a crumpled heap on the floor, but decided there were more important matters than sleep.

Groaning again, he staggered to his feet, and stumbled around their dark, lightless room, trying to find the door. Just his luck, he didn't find it until he ran into it, and when he did, he stumbled back in surprise, and tripped on the rug, landing flat on his back.

"Do you need the light, dear?" He heard his wife ask.

Panicking, he shouted, "no, no, DON'T-!"

Too late, the blindingly bright lights of the master bedroom blared to life. Thomas, too stunned to protest, simply threw his arms up over his eyes, trying not to go blind.

"Sorry," Martha said, trying to stifle a laugh.

"Sure you are," he replied, sarcastically.

Once he regained the use of his eyes, Thomas turned to glare at his wife, but found he couldn't stay mad at her. He wasn't surprised, he never could. Martha had the kind of face that no one could stay mad at. Her hazel eyes could move mountains, and her long, flowing brunette hair was perfect, even though she'd just woken up. Groaning in pain, and tiredness, Thomas got back up, and left the room, heading towards the origin of the scream.

Out in the hallway, it would've been extremely difficult to see, if the lights weren't motion activated. As such, it was easy for him to see the grand mahogany walls that, between the hundreds of expensive paintings and photos, had small, intricate designs upon every inch. He didn't pay them much attention, though. He lived here, and had for about two decades. All he was focused on was where he was going. Of course, as everyone does, he glanced at himself as he walked by a mirror. He didn't stop, but he slowed down enough to drag his brown hair out of his equally brown eyes. "I need to shave," he thought, as he continued walking.

The longer he walked, the farther it seemed he had to go. Such was the way of the rich- houses so grand you had to have a car to navigate without getting tired. Left, right, left, left again, he would've lost track of he hadn't been going down this hall every other night for the last month.

After what seemed an eternity of walking, he finally reached his destination- a door, at the end of the hall. The door wasn't any more special than all the other doors in the house- in fact, the only difference was the name tag that was duct taped to it at eye level. It read, quite simply, 'Bruce.' The letters were written in black crayon, and the letters were uneven, suggesting that they were written by a four year old. Bruce Wayne was, in fact, six. He just had bad handwriting.

Thomas didn't dwell on the door, or the sign. His thoughts were on the room he had just left, rather than the room he was heading towards. Stifling a yawn, Thomas knocked on the door, and, upon hearing a muffled, high pitched, "come in," turned the brass knob, and pushed the door open.

The room that followed looked like what most rooms for six year olds look like. Well, most six year olds don't have a thirty six inch flat screen on their walls, but other than that, it was the same. Oh, and the computer. Bruce loved his computer. But not as much as the Legos, and the other toys that were strewn all over the floor.

The bed wasn't nearly as large as Thomas', but it was still larger than most beds used by the typical kid his age. The Avengers blanket was picked out specifically by Bruce. He loved his comics.

Bruce himself was visibly shaken. His skin was pale- well, paler than usual. His long black hair was so far down his face that it was hard to see his dark brown eyes. But the most obvious sign of fear- aside from the earlier, blood curdling scream- was the fact that he was curled up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth, not on the bed, but in the far corner, and the lights were on.

"Bruce," Thomas sighed.

"I know, I know," Bruce whined. "'It's just a dream,'" he recited.

"Oh, you know, now, do you?" Thomas retorted.

"Yeah."

"Then why am I down here?"

Bruce opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to figure out what to say. After a moment or two, he said, "it just seemed so real. I really felt like I was there."

Thomas, who until that point had just been standing in the doorway, strode silently into the room, and sat down next to Bruce.

Bruce glanced up at his father, and said, "are you mad at me?"

"No, I'm not mad."

"You look mad."

Thomas hadn't even realized he was grimacing. "Well," he explained, "I stepped on a Lego."

Bruce winced, as if he felt the imaginary pain.

"I'm sorry I woke you up," Bruce sniffed.

"Bruce," Thomas said, Ignoring the apology, "did I ever tell you that I used to have nightmares, too?"

"You did?" Said Bruce, full of wonder, as if dads didn't have bad dreams.

"Yeah, I did." Thomas proclaimed. "Every night I had the same dream- a dream where I was being chased by some freak with a gun. They scared me to death every night, and it drove your grandpa insane."

"What happened?"

"I'll tell you what happened. See, one day, your grandpa sat me down right where you are, and he said to me, 'son, you might be scared, but fear isn't a bad thing.'"

"It's not?" Bruce asked.

"No, it's not. See, fear gives us boundaries. Without them, we don't know our limits. And, in a world where people don't know their limits, a whole lot of people would die."

"Wow, I never thought of it that way."

"Bruce, one day you'll understand the importance of fear."

"I will?"

"You will. And on that day, I expect all of Gotham will know it."

He had no idea how right he was.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One:

Bruce would've been startled out of slumber by the annoying sound of his old alarm clock, but he'd been up for quite some time now, staring out the window of his third story bedroom. He still jumped, though; he hadn't been expecting it. Frustrated with everything, he hopped off his chair, turned the stupid clock off, and flopped back down. 'Now, where was I?' He thought to himself. 'Oh yeah. It was midnight, and dad was trying to comfort me."

Bruce remembered that night very well; even after eight years. See, after his talk with Thomas, his father, he expected his nightmares to stop. But, although they no longer happened every night, they never truly went away. Every three nights or so, he'd find himself falling into an endless pit, or trapped in a lightless, airtight room with no visible exit anywhere. But worse were the bats. See, whenever he was in this room, just as he thought he'd die from oxygen deprivation, a hole would open in the wall. Bruce fell for it every time. Every time, he'd rush for it, hoping to get a fresh breath of air, and just as he'd put his face up to it, hundreds of tiny winged demons would lunge out at him. One or two would get tangled in his hair, but the rest would fly in circles around him, clawing at every inch of him.

As you'd expect, Bruce's reaction was pretty much the same every time, save for the screaming. The nightmares terrified Bruce half to death, and all his father would do was yell at him, so he kept himself silent. But the fear soon turned to anger, anger towards the man who lied to him, the man who'd promised the pain would go away.

And every time he had a nightmare, his hatred would grow. The problem was, Thomas was never home. He was always either at work, or on vacation with his wife, leaving poor Bruce behind with their butler, Alfred. Bruce didn't hate Alfred for it- quite the contrary, Al was Bruce's best friend. That said, Bruce needed to find more creative ways for showing his disdain for his father. That often involved getting himself kicked out of every private school they'd ever sent him to, and that brought him to his current predicament. See, Thomas and Martha were out of private schools, and Thomas refused homeschooling him, so today started his first day at public school.

The thought of it had woken Bruce up from his nightmare a few hours ago, and he'd been sitting on a desk chair by his window ever since.

When the sun broke the horizon, Bruce gasped at the undyingly beautiful view it brought with it. He wasn't sure why, though. The two hundred fifty acres of the Wayne Manor backyard hadn't changed since Bruce's DAD was born, but it still captivated Bruce in a way that nothing else ever could. He'd seen everything from the Taj Mahal to Easter Island, and, to him, nothing compared to the wondrous sight in front of him.

It was just a field dotted with trees, but that never mattered to Bruce. The Pyramids were awesome, and the Grand Canyon was breathtaking, but Bruce loved this sight more than all, simply because of one fact he could never quite wrap his head around- it was all his. Every leaf, every blade of grass, all of it. He had a hard time understanding that, but it only served to fill Bruce with joy, just seeing it every morning.

In fact, the only thing that he didn't like seeing was the old well, but that's a story for later. He wasn't realy paying attention to any of it, anymore. Realizing that it was six thirty, and he needed to be ready for school in an hour, he hopped out of his desk chair, and got changed for school.

A few minutes later, he was wearing a simple pair of jeans, a Spiderman shirt, and a plain, black jacket. He slipped on his black Converse, zipped up his jacket, shouldered his brown backpack, and headed out the door.

On his way to the main room, he past the same mirror that, unbeknownst to him, Thomas stumbled past at midnight all those years ago. Bruce would've kept walking, but one glance told him that he hadn't brushed his hair. Deciding it wasn't worth his time, he dragged it out of his eyes, and worked it back into place with his hands. 'I need to shave,' he thought, continuing down the hall.

No, he didn't know what Gotham High was going to be like, but he was sure that whatever dangers life would throw at him, he'd be able to handle each and every one of them.

Boy, was he wrong.

So, what do you guys think, so far? I know, it's my first story, so it can't be perfect, but should I keep going?


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two:

Gotham High was not what Bruce expected it to be. In fact, it was worse. Even by public school standards, it was in a pretty bad shape. Most of the windows were shattered, kids were openly drinking, and one of the doors were hanging off its hinges. Bruce had just stepped off the bus, but one look at the sign out front made him want to turn around and jump back on. In fact, he probably would have, if the doors hadn't swung shut behind him at exactly that moment. Shuddering with fear, he looked back at the sign, to make sure he hadn't read it wrong.

'Gotham High,' it read, 'home of the bats.'

The bus roared off behind him, the physical embodiment of exactly what he felt like doing. Realizing that there was no way around it, Bruce pulled his jacket closer, pulled his black hair out of his face, and trudged past the sign.

The actual school itself was separated into several buildings on what Bruce thought to be the messiest campus in existence. There were literally broken beer bottles everywhere. The grass had withered and died, and there wasn't anything new growing in its place, leaving the entire campus bare, and covered in dirt. As Bruce wandered the courtyard, he couldn't help but think 'and this is the GOOD part of town?' He found that thought to be very depressing.

He walked over to the first non threatening looking kid he saw, and said, "hey, d'you know where the..." He looked at his schedule, and found out where his homeroom was, "science building is?"

Then Bruce got a better look at him. This kid, whoever he was, looked more than a bit worse for wear, sporting a tattered brown jacket, with matching jeans. His dirty blond hair was a bit stringy, as if he hadn't washed it, or wasn't able to. Despite all of this, the kid seemed more composed than most, and his brown eyes gave the general message of someone who wasn't quick to shy away from a fight.

When the kid looked back at him, it was all Bruce could do not to back up a few paces. "Don't be afraid," the kid smiled. "I know. It's the hair, isn't it?"

Bruce wasn't sure how to respond, so he asked again, "can you tell me where the science building is?"

"Yeah," the kid responded, "it's just over there, actually." He pointed at a building to his left. With his arm extended, Bruce somehow got the mental image of a scarecrow standing in a cornfield.

"Thank you," Bruce said, turning to leave.

"Hey," the kid called after him.

Bruce turned back. "Yeah?"

"Who are you?"

Smiling through the discomfort, Bruce walked back up to him, stuck out a hand, and said, "Bruce Wayne."

The kid's expression instantly changed from one of tiredness to one of shock. "THE Bruce Wayne?"

"The one and only." Bruce said, his hand still extended.

Realizing he was being offered a handshake, the kid reached out and took his hand, and shook it several times. As he did, he smiled, and said, "Johnny Crane. Can I just say that I never thought I'd see you anywhere, especially here, of all places? If you don't mind me asking, why aren't you at, well, a private school?"

Bruce took his hand back, and said simply, "it's a long story. Maybe I'll tell you sometime."

"Sure, sure," he smiled again. "Hey, who do you have for homeroom?"

Bruce looked back at his schedule. "Uh, Mister Fox."

"No way! I have him, too!"

"Great," Bruce responded, trying not to show his discomfort. "Well, I should probably get going-"

"Oh, we could go together!"

"Awesome."

Bruce was liking this place less and less by the minute.

They walked in silence for a few moments, before Johnny asked, "what's it like? Living in a mansion, I mean."

"Well," Bruce started, "it's not as fun as it sounds. I get lost all the time."

"That sounds awesome!" Johnny exclaimed. "My apartment is so small, you could trip over the rug in the kitchen, and land in the bathroom!"

They got to the door of the science building, and forced their way through the ocean of people who were all crowding through one of the four doors.

"Why don't they just use the others?" Bruce yelled to Johnny over the dull roar of other conversations.

"Because," he shouted back, "someone had the bright idea to lock the others from the inside."

That was literally the stupidest thing Bruce had ever heard.

On the way through the crowd of people, Johnny randomly turned to Bruce, and asked,"what are you afraid of?"

"What?" Bruce asked, unsure if he'd heard him correctly.

"What are you afraid of?" He asked again. "You know, clowns, heights-" he glanced at Bruce's Spiderman shirt- "probably not spiders-."

"Bats," Bruce said, cutting him off.

Johnny actually laughed at that. "Ha! Man, the irony! Bruce Wayne, afraid of bats, has to attend Gotham High, the literal HOME of bats!"

Bruce didn't find it as funny, but he forced a chuckle, anyway. 'Why couldn't I have asked someone ELSE about homeroom?' He thought. What he said was, "okay, Mister big shot, what are you afraid of?"

Johnny stopped and thought for a second, before saying, "huh. Y'know, I actually don't think I'm afraid of anything."

"Yeah," Bruce scoffed. "Sure."

"What? I'm not!" Johnny protested.

"I don't believe it, everyone is afraid of something."

"But I'm not!"

"Whatever you say."

"Well," Johnny said, seemingly trying to change the subject, "here we are."

They'd arrived at their destination.

One look at the inside of the classroom told Bruce that he just might have a decent year after all.

The room was so huge, it must've gone the length of the entire hall. There were desks upon desks of every sort of gadget and gizmo Bruce could've possibly imagine, and Bruce had a vivid imagination. And, topping it all, hanging from the ceiling was a model rocket the size of an ACTUAL rocket.

Bruce was about to blindly stumble into the room, when a hand on his shoulder brought him back down to earth. "Yeah, that's not our class," Johnny said. "That'd be awesome, though." He lead Bruce to the other side of the hall, past a message board covered with posters that all read "Harvey Dent for class president," and to another door. This door yielded a class that was, if possible, even smaller than a regular classroom.

'This day just keeps getting better and better,' Bruce thought to himself.


	4. Chapter 3

As much as Bruce disliked Gotham High, the classes , or more accurately, the people in them, were worth getting to know. Nearly every class he had had someone, or something, that was intriguing in some way, shape, or form.

When he walked into his history class that morning, for example, he felt like he was literally going back in time. The brick walls on the inside were grey, instead of white, like the rest of the school. Instead of any normal decorations that any regular history class would've had, this place was covered in centuries old banners, and faded tapestries displaying wars and lands long forgotten. The overhead lights were off, and the curtains, which were replaced with late thirteenth century Scottish banners, were drawn, blocking out any outside light. The only light sources were a bunch of torches mounted on the walls, bathing the place in a yellow-orange glow. All of this served to make the place feel like an authentic ancient medieval castle. And then Bruce met the teacher, Professor Savage. Now, with a name like 'Savage,' you'd think he'd be a lot less nice than he realy was. But Savage was awesome! One look at the guy would tell you he was more than 'just another teacher.'

For starters, he was dressed very differently than most of the other teachers, sporting a black trench coat, and a purple button up shirt. His black hair was starting to recede a bit, making his widow's peak much more prominent then it probably once was, but he somehow managed to make it work, anyway. And his voice! Man, his voice. The guy talked in such a way that Morgan Freeman, Mark Hamil, and Adam West would all be lining up for autographs.

And his speeches could move mountains. The guy couldn't be more than thirty, and he gave speeches about the past like he'd actually BEEN there. He spent the entire class talking about the colonization of America, and he gave details that no one should've known. He talked about Columbus like he personally knew him, giving details as broad as what year they sailed here (1492) to as specific as what time 'Chris,' as he called him, ate lunch (eleven forty five, on the dot.) Bruce loved the class so much, he almost didn't notice the guy in the back, who spent most of the hour and a half block shooting spit balls at him. Savage, however, took notice toward the end of class.

"You, in the back!" He called to the kid randomly, around the twelfth time Bruce's neck was splattered with wet paper.

The class, Bruce included, turned around to look at the young troublemaker.

The 'kid,' if that's what you'd call him, had clearly been held back a grade or three. His long black hair had been greased over to his left, and his deep brown eyes showed a man who'd been to hell and back, and wasn't afraid of anything. He wore a grey hoodie, and a red necklace designed to look like the crosshairs of a gun.

When addressed by Savage, he leaned back in his chair, and put his hands behind his head. He crossed his feet on top of the desk in front of him, stuck his chin out, and grunted, "What?"

Savage smiled, and said "what's your name, son?"

The kid snorted, and said "Floyd Lawton, and you're not my dad, punk."

The teacher, ignoring the insult, pointed at the straw he'd been firing spitballs from, and said "you're a pretty good shot with that thing. It would seem that not only have you hit Mister..." He glanced at Bruce.

"Wayne," Bruce sighed, shielding his face from the collective gasp from the students around him.

"Wayne," Savage continued, ignoring the others, "but you've hit him at exactly the same spot every time."

"Impressed?" Lawton asked, as Bruce felt the back of his neck. Bruce himself hadn't noticed that his neck had been hit twelve times in the exact same spot, so how had Savage?

"Not really," Savage replied, stifling a fake yawn, "unless you think we should be."

Eager to prove himself, Floyd loaded another paper spit wad, stuck his straw in his mouth, and fired it at his hand.

Just as the class was about to laugh, the ball somehow bounced off his hand, ricocheted off the wall behind him, flew across the room, and put out a torch near the door.

The class sat, stunned, for a full thirty seconds, before Lawton leaned back again, and put his feet back up on the desk. He made a gun with his fingers, pointed at the darkened torch, smirked, and said, "deadshot."

"I think you mean 'headshot,'" one of the other kids called.

"No, I think I said it right," Lawton called back, shaking his head.

The rest of class passed without a hitch, but out in the hallway, Bruce was put face first against his second worst fear- one of the school bullies.

He was just closing his locker, lunch bag in hand, when suddenly, the side of his head was being forced against the door. He couldn't see the face of the aggressor, because the guy's abnormally large hands were in the way. He couldn't breathe, either, given the huge amount of body odor that seemed to be washing over him in waves. Did this guy even know what a shower was?

"Hey, freshman," he heard a gruff voice shout. "You seem to have my lunch. I want it back."

"Bushmahn," Bruce mumbled through the guy's huge hand.

"What?" The brute grunted, before someone else shouted, "come on, Bane! We're gonna be late!"

This 'Bane,' if that's what they called him, growled, "you got lucky today, kid, but I'll find you later."

"Glhllmrfhr," Bruce barked menacingly, or, as menacingly as he could manage.

Bane grabbed Bruce by the hair, pulled his head back, and proceeded to dent Bruce's locker. Bruce crumpled to the ground, and blacked out for a few seconds. When he came to, Bane, whoever he was, had vanished.

'Who was that guy?' Bruce thought, as he got up off the floor, and rubbed his head in pain. He went to pick up his lunch bag, only to find that it was gone.

Bruce's stomach roared in protest, loud enough for other people walking by to turn and look back at him. This was going to be a long day.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four:

If the classes were bad, the cafeteria was absolute chaos. For starters, half the lights were busted, so it was difficult to see, but Bruce wondered if that was intentional, because upon closer examination, most of the walls were covered in moldy food that had probably been there since eighteen thirty. He could hardly hear himself think over the dull roar of hundreds of students, who were all huddled in the single room. So, basically, he couldn't see, hear, or smell anything- well, anything GOOD, at least. Bruce shuddered at the thought of what the food tasted like.

'Now,' Bruce thought, 'for the worst part of every freshman's first school lunch: finding a place to sit.'

Almost every table was full to the point of exploding- all except one. This was a much smaller table, and it was off in the corner, separate from the rest of them. The nerd table.

Bruce didn't want to sit there, but he didn't have much of a choice. Reluctantly, he shuffled over to it, and flopped down into an empty chair. Then he noticed who else was sitting there, and he wished he'd just stayed by the door.

"Well, hey there!" Johnny said, happily.

Bruce sighed, resigning himself to the fact that today was just going to suck.

"So," Johnny said, trying unsuccessfully to break the ice. "These are my friends, Noah, Lester, and Ed," he continued, gesturing to each of them in turn.

Bruce had always assumed 'stereotypes' were never true, but Noah was exactly what a stereotypical nerd would look like. The guy's glasses were so thick, Bruce could barely see his blueish green eyes. He was wearing a liquid blue button up shirt, and the chest pocket was overflowing with pens of all shapes and sizes.

Lester didn't seem too bright, but Bruce could tell exactly why he was here, and not with the rest of the crowd. The guy had a burn on the left side of his face the size of Manhattan. "I like wires," he said, when he saw Bruce staring. "Good to know," he responded nervously, wishing he could be anywhere else.

Ed was... Different. He, like Bruce, didn't have a food tray. No,, He seemed to be too engrossed with the crossword puzzle in today's paper to do much else. Bruce couldn't tell what color his eyes were, because the scrawny kid was hunched over so low, his long brown hair was obscuring the rest of his face. His green button up shirt seemed too big for him, as if that was all his parents could afford.

"He doesn't talk much," Johnny chuckled, when he noticed Bruce glancing at Ed.

"I can see that," Bruce responded quietly. He wasn't sure Johnny heard him over the thunderous noises everyone else were making.

Bruce was just about tired of this place, and wishing he'd stayed in private school. And he HATED private school. All the kids there were WAY too stuck up for his taste, but at least there, he could eat in peace.

Bruce, tired of being there, anxiously glanced around, trying to distract himself from his agonizing hunger.

He spotted Floyd, a few tables to his right, who seemed to be trying to impress some girl. As Bruce watched, Floyd fired another spitball, this time at one of the jocks. The girl didn't seem impressed, and neither did the jock, who apparently thought someone at his table shot it. "It was you, wasn't it, Jones?" Bruce heard him shout. The one called Jones adopted a look of confusion, a look which was quickly obscured by the fist of the accuser. A fight quickly ensued, but no one seemed worried. Bruce could see why, too: at that particular moment, there were four other fights happening in this room alone. Bruce looked back at Floyd, who was laughing at the chaos he'd helped create. Suddenly, Floyd seemed to realize someone was watching him. He scanned the cafeteria, and quickly spotted Bruce. Keeping eye contact, he loaded yet another spitball, and fired it directly at Bruce. Bruce couldn't see it, because it was going so fast, but he knew it was coming. He braced for impact, but it never made contact. By some miracle, Noah had reached out, and caught it.

For a full minute, Bruce stared incredulously at Noah, before stuttering, "how d- how did you-?"

"Don't act so impressed," Noah scoffed, dropping the spitball, and returning to his food. "It was just a matter of simple calculations. How fast it was going, wind resistance, what angle the straw was facing-."

"You did all that in your head, in a fraction of a second," Bruce said, cutting him off.

"What, you can't?" Noah smirked, taking a bite of mystery meat.

"No, Noah," Johnny chuckled, taking a sip of water from a bottle. "I don't know how many times we need to tell you that you're the only one who can do that."

"Realy?" Noah asked, as if this was extreme news to him.

"Dude," Lester started slowly. "How can you be so smart, and still be so stupid?"

"Couldn't have said it better myself," Johnny finished.

Bruce was still staring at Noah in wonder, when all noise in the room was silenced by a deafening BANG, as the doors burst open, and bounced off the walls. "GOOD MORN-" a voice started, and was quickly cut off as the doors came back and smacked the person in the face.

Just about everyone in the chamber started laughing- all except Johnny, who sighed, and said "here we go."

The doors opened again, and in strode a kid who clearly didn't belong in a school. He was literally the exact opposite of everyone else here- they were tired, mopey, and void of life, whereas this guy was lively, wide awake, and he literally exuded happiness. The only word Bruce could think of to describe him was 'crazy.' The kid's blonde hair was so untidy, you'd think he'd just woken up, and couldn't be bothered to brush it. Of course, the same was true for Bruce. His electrically blue eyes could power a city for a fortnight. Bruce vaguely wondered if he wasn't a robot of some sort, created by someone with only a vague understanding of what a person looks like.

"GOOD MORNING, GOTHAM HIGH!" He restarted, with an unnaturally large grin. "Did you miss me?"

"NO!" one of the jocks called, causing everyone else to laugh again.

"Everyone's a comedian," the kid said, laughing along with everyone else.

After that, lunch resumed it's usual, rowdy, violent schedule.

Bruce leaned over to Johnny, and asked, "Who's that?"

"Jack," he replied simply. "The kid's been sent to Arkham more times than I can count."

"What's 'Arkham?'" Bruce questioned.

"It's the school they send all the bad kids to," Lester replied, rubbing his hand over the burn on his face.

Bruce looked at Johnny, questioningly. "Bad kids, like..?"

"I wouldn't worry about it if I were you," Johnny chuckled. "You have to mess up pretty badly to be sent to Arkham."

A few minutes later, the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. As Bruce got up to leave, he couldn't help but wonder how bad you'd have to be to be sent to a correctional school more times than anyone could count.


	6. Chapter 5

Hey, guys! Sorry it took so long to get this up here; I hit a block. Well, the point is, I'm back now. Be prepared, because this one made ME cry.

Chapter Five:

The rest of his day was extremely uneventful, to the point of Bruce being bored out of his mind. It didn't take him long to realize that the kids of public schools were held to a lower standard of learning than private schooled ones. He'd never stayed in one long enough to learn anything, and he still knew everything he was being 'taught.' At long last, the final Bell rang, and he darted out of the door, ready to be ANYWHERE but there.

When Bruce got off the bus at the gates of Wayne Manor, he breathed a sigh of relief. He was more than thrilled at the sight of the centuries old, multi storied, Gothic building, with all it's creepy gargoyles, and black shingles. It was the best thing he'd seen all day- well, aside from the science lab he'd accidentally strode into that morning.

Unfortunately, when he walked through the door, he realized that the day was far from over. His mother and father were both standing there, in the main hall, wearing their traveling attire. His father was wearing a tan tweed jacket, with an azure ascot over top. His mother was wearing a fuscia overcoat, and had her nails painted to match. Barely visible was a brilliant pearl necklace, which alone was probably worth more than Bruce's entire school. He personally thought they looked ridiculous, but to each his own. Bruce was more focused on what his mom was holding, than what she was wearing, anyway. Well, in her right hand. In her left was the purse of the day, which was probably worth the same as Fort Knox, and which was likely going to be thrown away later that evening. In her right hand, she held what looked like three front row tickets to something.

Realizing what he was looking at, his mom held them out for him to read.

The words "Haly's Circus" were written in a bold, white font, encased in a red background. At the bottom were pictured three people, seemingly floating in the air, above the caption, "Featuring The Flying Graysons."

He instantly cringed when he read them. He absolutely detested clowns. He wasn't afraid of them, like he was bats, but he despised them nonetheless. It made him furious, just SEEING the tickets, but he kept his trap shut, knowing full well that if he voiced his opinion, his mom would be upset. There were only two people alive who's opinion mattered to him, and his mom was one of them.

Just then, the other person Bruce cared about, the family Butler, Alfred, walked in, and said in his thick British accent, "the car is waiting for you, Mister and Missus Wayne.

"Al," Bruce's father smiled, "how many times do we need to tell you to call us by our names?"

"At least one more, Sir," Alfred chuckled.

They arrived at the Gotham Park about an hour later. Bruce was about to ask where they were supposed to go, before he realized how stupid the question was. The marquee that the circus was in was larger than anything in the surrounding area- including the obelisk, and that thing was fifty feet tall.

They had Alfred park the limo under a tree, just outside the park entrance, and started making their way to the tent.

"Mom?" Bruce said.

"Yeah?" His mother replied, without looking back.

"Why are we here, again?"

"Well, I thought we'd celebrate your first day of high school, and Haly's Circus was the biggest attraction in town."

"And we know how much you like clowns," Bruce's father added, not knowing how far from the truth he was.

Soon enough, Bruce and his parents were seated in the front row, waiting for the show to start. And, boy, did it start. The opening was a huge number of trained animals, all preforming an insane dance routine that probably took a decade and a half to prepare.

Then, the clowns showed up, and it didn't take long for Bruce to excuse himself, and rush to the 'bathroom.' He waited outside the tent for a about five minutes, or so, just to make sure the clowns were gone, before turning, and walking back in.

He must've not been paying attention to where he was going, because he accidentally collided with some kid, who proceeded to continue running away from the tent, and laughing merrily. Soon after, a woman sprinted after him, yelling, "TIMOTHY JASON DRAKE! GET BACK HERE, NOW!"

'Kids,' Bruce thought, continuing his journey back into the big top.

"People of Gotham!" The ring leader, Haly, shouted to the crowd, just as Bruce sat back down. "It brings me great pleasure to present you tonight's main attraction: THE FLYING GRAYSONS!"

On cue, a trio of trapeze experts swung down from a podium, probably a couple and their son, and started doing some of the most insane stunts Bruce had ever seen.

A spotlight fell upon each of them, as the announcer introduced them. "This trio of daredevils have been doing this for more than a decade. John," John did a somersault over the woman, "Marry," the woman back flipped off the swing, and grabbed onto John's feet, "and their son, Dick!"

Dick swung down, grabbed John's hand, and, using the momentum, flung them across the room, to another rope.

This went on for several minutes, with Bruce, and the entire audience, staring, awestruck.

The youngest was just about to grab their hands off of another swing, when the unthinkable happened.

The swing that John and Mary were hanging onto snapped in half, and as they fell, Bruce realized that the reason they were called 'The Flying Graysons," was the lack of a net.

Everyone collectively gasped, as the falling Graysons hit the cement floor with a thud, and before anyone could react, a man in a mask strode confidently into the tent. In one hand, held a pistol, and in the other, a collection of bolts.

It didn't take a detective to guess who he was.

"Citizens of Gotham," he shouted. "Witness the outcome of a person who refuses to pay a mob boss!"

Horrified with the grizzly end of the preformance they'd just witnessed, Bruce's parents were almost the first ones out the tent, dragging Bruce along with them. But Bruce didn't want to leave. For the first time, Bruce felt something take hold of him. He felt this compulsive NEED to go back- to do whatever he could to help them. Of course, he knew it was a stupid thought. They were dead; he didn't need to be a doctor to determine that. A fifty feet fall onto a concrete floor will do that to most people. Soon, he realized that it was more than helping them. He wanted Justice. He couldn't stand the idea of someone doing something so cruel, so EVIL, and just walking away. That man had to be stopped.

Unfortunately, Bruce didn't get to make that decision, because before he finished his thought process, he, and his parents, were back in the park, heading back towards the limo.

The crowd of panicked people followed shortly after, and Bruce and his parents were very quickly turned around. Soon, through the fear driven civilians, they could no longer tell where they were going. At one point, Bruce almost lost his grip on his mother's hand. That wouldn't've been good. At length, they decided that fighting through the crowd would only get them further from their destination, so they opted for the only alternative- they struggled over to the nearest park bench, sat down, and waited out the storm.

As fate would have it, they didn't have to wait long. Pretty soon, the only people in sight were Bruce, his mom, and his father.

"Well," his father remarked, in a stunned voice. "That happened."

"Thanks, dad," Bruce scoffed. "I had no idea."

"Bruce!" Bruce's mom said, flabbergasted. "That is no way to talk to your father!"

"No, Martha," Thomas said, holding his hands up in defeat. "It's fine. We'll deal with this later. For now, let's just focus on where we are."

There wasn't much to see- the area around the bench was surrounded by a fog so thick, you couldn't cut it with a steak knife. Or a machete. And if the fog wasn't enough, it was blindingly dark. Bruce thought he'd be smart, and turn on the flash light app on his phone, only to discover that it was dead, and his parent's phones weren't much better.

"Well, not much else to do but walk." Bruce's father sighed.

He hated it, but Bruce agreed with him.

They walked for seemingly hours, before finally arriving at the entrance of the park. Then they realized why it had taken them so long- it was the opposite entrance.

"Well, at least now," Bruce's father started, "we know where we are."

They didn't get far from the park entrance, before a gruff, menacing voice behind them spoke.

"Money." There was a clicking sound, and Bruce realized the man must've had a gun. "Now."

The three of them wheeled around, and stared at their antagonizer.

"Sure," Bruce's father said, trying to remain calm. Slowly, he reached into his pocket, and pulled out an oversized wallet.

With shaky hands, he reached in, and pulled out all the cash.

After he handed the mugger the money, he quivered," anything else we can do for you?"

The man paused, as if to contemplate the question, before aiming the gun, and firing a round into Thomas Wayne's chest.

He fell, limp, to the concrete sidewalk. Bruce's mother, who started to scream, quickly received the same treatment.

The murderer then locked eyes with Bruce, and stood like that for a full minute. Other than his eyes, which were green, Bruce had no idea what the man looked like, as a mask covered his face.

Then, without warning, the guy turned, and ran off, leaving Bruce with his parents.

He stood there, stunned, for a long time, before he felt a tug at his pant leg.

Bruce looked down, and saw his father.

His face was the color of the sidewalk he was sprawled out on.

With a weak smile, he whispered, "don't be afraid..."

And with that, he exhaled, and closed his eyes, leaving Bruce alone on the sidewalk.


	7. Chapter 6

Bruce had never sobbed so hard in his entire life. In fact, crying was the only thing he could think about, and when he finally took notice of his surroundings, he realized he'd somehow made it from the alley near his limo, to the middle of the Gotham police department. The only effect that yielded? He tried to stifle the tears for about five seconds. His parents were gone, and part of him couldn't quite grasp the concept of that.

Trying to take his mind off of the scarring events that had just unfolded, Bruce tried to focus on something- ANYTHING else. People in uniforms- detectives, cops, all of them were rushing around him, barking orders, and shouting incoherently, so the words blurred together. "Two hits in ONE night?" One said. "The press is gonna have a field day," said another. "The look on those boys' faces..." Cried a third.

The rest were a bunch of jumbled noises. 'Those boys?' Bruce thought. He turned to his left, and jumped in surprise. The Grayson kid was sitting next to him, sobbing just as hard as he'd been.

Bruce wanted to say something, but he wasn't sure what.

After a minute of thought, Bruce sniffed, and said "Hi, I'm-"

"Bruce Wayne," the kid responded, staring vacantly at the floor. "Who DOESN'T know you?"

"You'd be surprised," Bruce countered, wiping a tear from his cheek.

The kid was silent for a few minutes, before simply saying, "I'm Dick."

"I know, I heard the announcer."

Bruce was about to say something about Dick's parents, before fate did it for him.

"Excuse me," a voice came from ahead of them. They looked up, and found a woman standing before them.

Bruce, after a second of thinking, realized it was the woman from the circus, who'd been chasing her kid.

"It's you," Dick said, simply.

"You know her?" Bruce asked.

Before Dick could respond, the woman held out a package for Dick, saying, "My son, Tim, thought you'd need this more than him, and, well, I couldn't agree with him more."

With shaky hands, Dick reached out, and took the package.

"Both of your parents loved you very much," she sniffed acknowledging Bruce and Dick, before wheeling around, and strolling out of the office.

"What was that about?" Bruce asked, confused.

Dick wasn't listening. Barely holding the package straight, he ripped the brown paper off of it, to reveal a framed photograph.

When he saw it, Bruce almost cried for him. It was a picture of Dick, and his parents, with Tim. It had to have been taken that afternoon; Bruce saw the obelisk from Gotham park in the back ground.

They sat as they had before for a few minutes, staring at the last photo of Dick's parents, before Bruce realized something.

"Hey, didn't the circus leave a few hours ago?"

"Yeah," Dick replied. "I told them to go without me. I'd rather live in an orphanage than go back there."

In that moment, Amidst all Bruce was feeling- regret, sadness, anger, fear- arose a new, nearly foreign emotion- sympathy. He barely knew this kid, and he felt bad for him. Dick couldn't have been older than him, and unlike Bruce, who had a mansion to go back to, this kid was about to spend months- or YEARS- in an orphanage, somewhere, hoping that someone would addopt him, and as bad as Bruce's life was about to become, he knew it was nothing compared to what Dick was facing.

Then, Bruce had an idea. He looked around the room for a few seconds, before locating his British friend.

"Excuse me just a second," Bruce groaned, shakily stumbling to his feet, and walking over to his Butler- well, guardian, now- who, at the moment, was talking to some detective, presumably about Bruce's parents.

"Hey, Al," Bruce said, making him jump slightly.

"Master Bruce!" He exclaimed. "Aside from giving my condolences, what can I do for you this evening? This fine young gentleman," he gestured to the detective he was talking to, "is detective James Gordon. He has agreed to help hunt down the bloke who killed them."

"We're going to do everything we can," Gordon explained. "I'm sure it's what your parents would want."

A thought started to form in Bruce's head, but now wasn't the time to worry about anything else, so he catalogued it, and said "I am too."

He turned back to Al, and said, "Dick's going to end up in an orphanage."

"I'm sorry, who?"

"The Grayson kid. The point is, I'd like to adopt him."

Less than an hour later, Dick was in the back of Bruce's limo, adoption papers in one hand, photograph in the other.

"I can't thank you enough," he said to Alfred and Bruce through his tears, not all of which were of sadness anymore.

"Don't," Bruce replied. "It's what brothers do."

Dick smiled at that.

They drove for a few minutes in silence, before Bruce decided to turn on the TV. It was brodcasting the end of a news report. The reporter, Vicki Vale, who was new, and couldn't have been much older than Bruce, was talking about the Wayne-Grayson tragedy. "Quite the grizzly evening," she exclaimed, in an overly chipper voice, probably due to the eight empty coffee cups around her. "Wouldn't you say, Bob?"

Bob, the anchorman, just looked at her.

"Okay, then," she sighed, shuffling some papers, and switching to another story. "In other news, teenage billionaire Oliver Queen has just been found after a five year period, in which we all thought..."

The TV shut off, and the car rolled up to the entrance of Wayne Manor- his house.

"Well, Dick," Bruce yawned, thinking only of his parents, "it's getting kind of late."

In fact, the sun was now rising, but Bruce hated mornings, anyway. "I'll have Alfred show you to your room."

"Okay," Dick replied, vacantly, gazing up at the enormousness of the mansion.

Bruce couldn't have known it, but at that moment, he and Dick had the same thought.

The world was messed up- twisted and evil beyond measure. Bad things happen every day, and no one ever seemed to care- or, if they did, no one did anything about it. Their parents were gone, and that couldn't be fixed. They were now lost in the veil of darkness whose cold talons gripped the world like an eternal night that leaves you dying in agony, longing for a glimpse of the sun. But the darkness, they realized, could be fought, and at that moment, Bruce and Dick both knew that one day soon, they would fight, and they would win, even if it was the last thing they did.

_Author's note:_

I'd like to take a moment to apologize for the typo in the previous chapter. By the time I noticed it, you all had read it. Also, if you are reading this, thank you.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter seven:

The striking of a match illuminated the dark alley, and all five of its shady occupants, dimly enough that someone would actually have to walk down it to see them.

"Put that bloody thing out!" One of them said in a hushed voice. "Someone might see us," he whispered, glancing worriedly.

"Don't worry about Tony," a second, much, MUCH larger person said in a gravely voice, nudging Tony so hard he almost fell over. "He's just worried about that-"

"Don't say his name!" Tony interrupted, his voice cracking.

The person who lit the match held it out, and ignited a cigar, before saying "Don't worry about that freak show," in a nasally voice. "Or his... flamboyant partner."

He gestured to the table of weapons in the center of the circle of thugs. Ten very large guns lay side by side, just itching to be fired. "If either of them think they can mess with us, they're stupider than the ridiculous jumpsuits they parade around in."

On the fire escape two stories up, Bruce silently watched while the gun exchange took place. He was dressed in a grey jumpsuit and a black ski mask. Under his suit was a simple bulletproof vest, the only form of actual protection it had to offer. On the front of the suit, he'd taken a can of black spray paint, and drawn out a rough, bat-like design, which was what he'd taken as his calling card. He chuckled for a bit at Tony's momentary fright- it seemed as though Bruce's nightly escapades had been having their intended effect.

The three weeks following the quadruple homicide of both Bruce and Dick's parents had been life changing for both of them. After the funerals, Alfred had Dick enroll at Gotham High, and a day or two later, Bruce signed both of them up for every available karate class in the city.

Present day, they both were now singlehandedly taking down every crime operation they came across- yesterday, Dick had stopped a purse snatcher; the day before, Bruce had KO'd a group of slightly drunk party goers, who thought it'd be fun to try breaking into a neighbor's house; the list went on for quite a while, but this was the first time Bruce had had to deal with an illegal gun trade, and, knowing firsthand what the smallest of those death wands could do, he was just a little nervous; nevertheless, he knew what had to be done.

Without hesitation, Bruce vaulted over the rusted railing of the fire escape, kicked off the wall opposite, and back flipped onto the table, causing it's legs to fall out from under it, sending guns clattering in every direction.

The group of thugs had a wide variety of reactions: Tony swore loudly, and sprinted off yelling "I TOLD YOU!" The man with the cigar and the match stood silently, as if the meet were still going on. The other three, who were much larger than Bruce, lunged at him like a pack of hungry bears.

He took down the first with a simple elbow to the head, and as he did, he spun around and kicked the second in the groin, which, naturally, caused him to double over in pain. The third, who was quite a bit larger, even by criminal standards, proved to be a bit of a tougher foe. Bruce went to punch him in the highest part he could reach- his chest- but the behemoth simply grabbed Bruce by the arm, and hoisted him into the air.

The thug locked eyes with Bruce, and stared questioningly for a few seconds, before saying, "You?"

His voice came out in a low growl, and when Bruce heard it, he wasn't surprised by the way it sounded. The man was like an animal, and his voice sounded exactly like what Bruce pictured a large animal sounding like- if it could talk.

Now that Bruce was eye level with him, he noticed something he hadn't a minute ago- the man had several distinctly nonhuman features- aside from being seven foot nine. Namely, his eyes were yellow, and his pupils were slits- almost like a cat's, or a lizard's, or...

"This is the man everyone's quaking in their boots about?" The crook asked incredulously, bringing Bruce back to earth. Then the large gun trader shook Bruce violently, as he howled with laughter, and Bruce honestly couldn't blame him. Next to this guy, Bruce didn't look very intimidating.

Bruce's legs were dangling a good foot off the ground, and as the thing laughed, Bruce reared back, swung forward, and kicked him in the gut.

Bruce's immediate thought after was 'Why is this man's stomach made of bricks?' His second thought was 'Note to self- buy steel toed boots.' It took all Bruce had not to howl in pain, and, since the monster was still laughing, Bruce guessed he probably hadn't felt anything.

'Well, this'll be fun,' Bruce thought to himself. Realizing this might be it, he did the only logical thing he could think of: he swung back, and flew in again, as if going in for another kick, but this time, he planted his foot, ran up the towering man's stomach, and kicked him in the jaw.

He used the momentum to pull himself into a back flip, wrenching his hand free of the man's clawed grasp. The man, who had stopped laughing when Bruce's foot had connected with his jaw, stumbled backwards about five feet, before toppling over like a sack of bricks, spraying debris everywhere. Bruce landed, kneeling, and remained so for a count of five, catching his breath.

The sound of clapping reminded him that there was still one left.

"Wow!" The man with the match exclaimed. "That was impressive."

Bruce struggled to his feet, and turned towards the man, who had seemingly spent the last minute standing there, watching the fight unfold, smoking his cigar.

Assuming the man wasn't planning on going anywhere, Bruce took a moment to assess the damage around him.

The scraps of a wooden table lay in a heap, surrounded by two incapacitated criminals, and one unconscious giant.

Nine guns lay on the ground surrounding the area, some large, some small. Bruce didn't have too much knowledge of the different types of guns, but he knew an RPG and a machine gun when he saw them.

'Wait,' Bruce thought, suddenly, 'Nine guns? Weren't there just ten-?'

An all too familiar clicking sound drew Bruce's attention back to the match man, who now had a pistol pointing directly at him.

"Don't move," the man said, his voice unwavering, "or your friend will have to find a new partner."

Bruce, who remained just as calm, forced his voice into a more gravely tone, and said "Yeah, about the 'friend' you mentioned..."

And suddenly, without warning, a green combat boot collided with match man's back, and the wearer of said boot put enough force into the kick to jump off, and do not one, not two, but THREE consecutive back flips in the air. He stuck the landing, and the match man did not.

The kid in the green combat boots, Dick, was wearing matching pairs of shorts and gloves, a bulletproof vest, which had Ben spray painted red, and a black domino mask. His arms and legs were completely exposed.

"Hey!" Dick exclaimed, as if greeting someone at a bar. "What are the odds of both of us turning up in the same alley at the same time?"

"How can't we," Bruce countered, "when you keep following me around?"

"If I hadn't, you would've died."

"I was handling it."

"Clearly."

Bruce scoffed, but remained silent.

Looking to change the subject, Bruce pulled back the right sleeve of his jumpsuit, glanced at a watch, and said "Hey, we should probably be heading home."

Dick sighed. "But it's so much more fun out here."

"Sure it is, NOW," Bruce said, starting down the alley. "But it won't be when we're taking that English test tomorrow."

"We have an English test tomorrow?"

Bruce kept walking, until he found himself next to the fire escape, which he proceeded to start climbing. As he did, he silently counted to five.

"Wait for me!" Dick called, predictably, racing after him.

Bruce smiled, knowing full well the test wasn't until Thursday.


	9. Chapter 8

Bruce had been dozing off in homeroom, but when the student news on the overhead television popped on, and a man started his segment with "Who is the bat-" he snapped wide awake, and stared, nervously, at the screen.

He needn't have worried, as the man was referring to a bat owner, who's pet had accidentally escaped last night.

Sighing in relief, he slid back down in the uncomfortable chair of his desk, and looked around to make sure no one had seen him. Thankfully, no one had.

He had been on edge for the past several days, now. Instead of bats, he now had his father's dying words to dream about. 'Don't be afraid,' he had said. Bruce was trying, but he couldn't help but feel fear- fear that someone might discover why he was always tired in class, fear that he or Dick might not make it home one night, and definitely fear for the math test that afternoon. But looming over it all was the continuous overarching fear that he'd unwittingly bring work home with him. Bruce felt he would rather spend the night in a dark cave filled with live bats than find out someone he cared about was in danger, because of him.

But for now, he didn't need to worry about any of that. All he needed to do was get through the day- it was Friday, and he was planning on throwing a party to celebrate. He's invite his friends, and tell them to invite their friends. He'd hired an electrician to install a some strobes, and a giant surround sound system in his foyer, and was thinking about phoning a DJ. It was going to be great.

At least, that WAS the plan, before the rest of the day happened.

After an uneventful first period shop, he arrived at professor Savage's history class, and plunked his stuff down at his usual desk, which was as far away from Floyd's as possible. As Bruce predicted, before the bell had finished ringing, he felt the all too familiar spitball splatter against the back of his neck. He glared back at Floyd, who was conveniently looking the other way. Bruce figured he could've requested his desk be moved to the other side of campus, and Lawton would still hit him.

Unaware of this, Savage approached the podium, and started the lesson by picking up one of the torches, and holding it aloft.

"Now, I have received a few fire hazard complaints about these," he started in his usual dramatic voice. "And I thought I'd take a brief moment to show you this." He turned the torch around, and revealed a small switch on the back. He flipped it, and the torch went out. He flipped it again, and the torch turned on. "You see, it's not a real fire." To further prove his statement, he waved his hand through the 'flame' a few times. Nothing happened.

After the side note, class continued as normal. By now in their studies, they had gotten to the revolutionary war.

'This guy is a history FANATIC,' Bruce thought, as Savage procured what he claimed to be several real rounds of ammunition from that time period.

After that, Savage handed out a set of very large packets, and told the students they had to be completed by the end of the week.

Amidst the loud groans of physical agony they simultaneously emitted, one kid yelled "can we work in partners?"

The teacher pondered this for a moment, and said "Alright, you've caught me in a generous mood."

Bruce, preferring to work alone, and at his own pace, started to work right away. Then, he heard the jarring scrape of a desk being dragged across the linoleum floor, and the next thing he knew, there was some kid sitting there, staring blankly at him. Well, Bruce assumed he was looking at him, because under the kid's unkempt mane of matted blonde hair was a pair of glasses so thick that Bruce couldn't quite make out where his eyes were.

After a moment of silence, Bruce made to keep working, but the second he circled an answer, he saw the kid lean over and circle the same exact answer on his paper, before looking back at him, expectantly.

Now, Bruce knew a cheater when he saw one. The last thing he needed on his plate was to get into trouble, so he reached into his bag, and came up with a binder, which he opened and stood up in front of his paper.

Confident that he'd solved the problem, he focused back on the packet. A few minutes later, when he went to flip the page, he heard the kid flip his page, too. He glanced up, and realized that he'd been looking over his binder.

Realizing that talking was the only way around this, he sighed an said "Listen-"

"Lenny," the kid interrupted him. His voice was ever so slightly nasally.

"What?" Bruce asked, distracted.

"Th- were you not asking my name?"

"No..."

"Sorry," he paused to push his glasses back up his nose. "I'm a failure at school AND talking."

"Uh," Bruce started, his train of thought derailed.

"You don't have to say anything," Lenny interrupted. "I'm a failure, and there's no need to tease me about it. The truth is, I have no idea what any of these answers are-"

'No way,' Bruce thought, sarcastically.

"And if I don't cheat off someone, I'll have no way of knowing if I'm right."

"Did you ever consider looking them up?" Bruce asked, almost immediately wishing he could take the words back.

"Well, I would, but the thing is..." the kid started in on what seemed to be a long tirade about why exactly that was a bad idea, and Bruce had no polite way of telling the kid to shut up so he could work, but Lawton saved him.

"Hey, Leonard!" Floyd yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. "No one cares."

The entire class (Bruce excluded) burst out laughing, and poor Leonard's first instinct was to lean forward to hide his head in embarrassment. Unfortunately, he leaned forward too quickly, and his face smacked the table, causing the class to laugh even MORE.

Sobbing, Lenny jumped up and ran out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The loud clap of the door shutting silenced everyone. The only sound after that was that of Lenny's pencil rolling off the desk and hitting the ground, Eraser first.


End file.
